Warsaw Roulette
by LadyTrampleton
Summary: It's a game Russia loves to play, but do those around him enjoy it too?


A seven chambered Nagant 1895 revolver lay on the dirty circular table, its metal shining in the dim candlelight. It was loaded with one bullet. Seven figures were inside the dank cellar, seven seated on chairs, stools or even wooden crates. It was deathly cold; frost lined the corners of the walls and breath could be seen in the air. One figure loomed over them all, his violet eyes blank and his childish grin fixed on his pale face. The seven seated figures shrank away from him, eyeing the wooden door that led to their freedom. The door was locked, and the large man before them had the key. He wouldn't let them go until he was satisfied. That was the rule they had all learned since forcibly joining his organisation; if the Motherland was pleased, they would be rewarded. None dared to risk his wrath, even the bravest of the group. They were all equals in this room. They all had a chance of dying today, just as they all had a chance of living.

They were cold, dirty, thin and exhausted. The conflicts had ravaged their bodies, stretching and testing them to the limit. They had survived the war, but now they were weak. Their leader however was still strong. It had not taken much effort for him to claim the nations as part of his Pact. They were toys subject to his whims, with no strength to resist. Not anymore. Some of the nations had bravely tried to fight, but they had all lost to superior strength.

One by one they had been ushered into the cellar, some had fought, some had been lead quietly without fuss, but all had accepted their fate one way or another. Now they all sat, waiting for the game to begin. They knew the rules; they had all played this sadistic game before and had somehow survived. Four large white candles had been lit in the corners of the cellar. They offered little warmth and barely enough illumination.

"We play da?" said the standing figure, his voice holding no emotion. The grin grew a little wider as he pushed the revolver towards the first seated figure.

The smallest of the group, the boy nation whimpered and shook his head. Tears formed in the corner of his blue eyes, threatening to drip onto his maroon military uniform. His hands balled into fists and remained fixed in his lap. His act of defiance caused the leader of the game to pull out a pistol from the pocket of his large coat. It was aimed at the young nation's face, inches away from his forehead.

"You have choice comrade," the powerful man announced, "you play the game and maybe die, or I shoot and you definitely die."

When the young nation made no move, the pistol was cocked. He whimpered as the cold metal connected with his skin.

"Latvia please," a shaky voice breathed, "pick it up."

With noticeable strain, the nation slowly wrapped his small fingers around the metal. His hand shook violently as he pressed the nozzle to his temple. A figure whimpered, another looked away burying their face in their hands. Sobs echoed throughout the room. One seated figure watched, stone-faced and knuckles white. They all knew the odds; a one in eight chance that the boy could die, his brains blown from his head and sprayed against the grey walls. And no one would be able to help him.

Tears streamed down the nation's cheeks. His body shook with fear and trepidation. One last glance around the room before teary eyes squeezed shut. One last breathy whimper-

CLICK

The room released a collective breath. With wide eyes, the boy stared at the table, body rigid with adrenaline, fear and shock. The revolver shook violently as he set in back to the dirty table. His face was pale and he began to rock on his stool, tears streaming and harsh sobs wracking his tiny frame. No one moved, no one dared to comfort him, no one dare to breathe...

"Continue," the leader commanded. He moved his pistol from the crying boy to the next seated figure.

The next nation gripped the revolver. Short blond hair and glasses, one clean and shining were now dirty and cracked. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth and one of his blue eyes was puffed, a bruise beginning to form. His blue uniform was stained and torn in several places; he had fought the leader until the very end, desperate to avoid the game.

Colour drained from his face and the broken glasses slipped down his nose. The revolver slowly found its way to the nation's temple.

A one in seven chance...

A deep breath, a whimper of fear, eyes narrowed as tears formed-

CLICK

The nation pulled the revolver away from his temple and stared at it, the metal glinting in the dimming candlelight. As if awoken from a trance the man shook himself, realising he had a revolver in his hand and threw it onto the table, revulsion clear on his pale face.

The next figure sat slumped on a wooden crate, his thin legs at a jaunty angle and his tan boots hanging loosely at his ankles. His long blond hair framed his mud-stained face; his green eyes were wide and sunken into his skull. Dark circles and bruises marred his paper skin. He was bone-thin, his green uniform hanging from his withered frame. Picking up the pistol was difficult for his skeletal fingers. It seemed an effort to hold the metal and pull it upwards to his temple. He had suffered worst of all the figures in the room. His eyes, though wide, were devoid of any emotion. His expression never changed as the revolver rested against his temple.

A one in six chance... The nation licked his lips, and squeezed-

CLICK

The revolver clattered to the floor as the nation's energy drained. He slumped forwards onto the table, his chest rising with quickening pace. He remained that way for many tense moments.

The next nation did not hesitate. The only female of the group, she snatched up the revolver without taking her green eyes off the leader. Her green beret was still atop her head, although it had been shredded during a struggle before the game began. Despite being weak and thin, she still possessed a rebellious streak and defied her captor whenever the opportunity arose. A one in five chance, yet it was over in three seconds. Metal pressed to her temple, she took a deep breath through her nose-

CLICK

The revolver was slammed back onto the table. Green eyes glared at the leader, defiant and challenging. A tiny grin formed on the leader's face as he matched her gaze. His violet eyes promised pain and suffering for the nation when the game was over. She broke her stare to push the Nagant to the man to her left.

He was already sobbing, his eyes squeezed shut and hands clasped in his lap. His dirty brown hair was pulled back against his neck. The dim candlelight managed to highlight the swollen cheek and split lip. When the leader's pistol cocked again, his hand shot out and grabbed the Nagant. He slowly pulled the revolver upwards and rested it against his temple. The angle was difficult to do with a broken arm.

A one in four chance that he could die; the odds were against him. The boy nation from before began to sob loudly once more.

"Poland," he breathed-

CLICK

He screamed as the Nagant clicked against his temple, disbelief bright in his green eyes. His cries echoed throughout the dark cellar. Panting for breath, he lowered the pistol and gently pushed it towards the last seated nation.

The white-haired man sat rigid in his seat, his blue uniform and Iron Cross covered in mud. He was thin and weak; his skin taught against his bone, but his red eyes still glowed with hatred. With great difficultly, he pulled the Nagant close. He stared at the metal for a moment, before sighing and raising it to his head.

A one in three chance he would live. With a white-knuckled grip, he pressed the revolver to his temple. His eyes flicked to the female nation, then back to the leader. He breathed through his nose, his face twisted in pure anger and hatred-

CLICK

With a triumph sneer, the white-haired man slammed the revolver into the table, causing the nation lying atop to jolt upwards. All the seated figures breathed a collective sigh of relief, grateful that they had survived another day. Some began to shake and hug each other tightly; the small boy began to cry again, this time in joy. Together they had survived.

No one noticed the Nagant move from the table-

BANG

Someone screamed, some figures fell from their seats and cowered under the table. A few brave one remained seated but limbs shook in shock and eyes were wide with fear and apprehension. The leader stood, the Nagant in his hand, smoke floating from the nozzle. Blood trickled down his temple but he didn't move. His face was blank, expressionless. Blood was sprayed against the wall and on his coat.

Slowly the revolver moved. He pulled it to his face, his blank grin returning. He flipped open the barrel and pulled a bullet from his coat pocket.

"We play again da?"

* * *

><p>The Warsaw Pact refers to what we know as the "Eastern" side of the division after World War II. The Soviet Union was already in existence at this time and had already enveloped countries such as Lithuania, Estonia, Latvia, Ukraine, Belarus etc. The addition of Hungary, Poland and East Germany (Prussia) was formalised in 1955, but had been in existence since 1945.<p>

If there's any confusion as to which nations were mentioned, the order is:

Latvia, Estonia, Poland, Hungary, Lithuania, Prussia and then Russia.

In case you wanted an image of the revolver used, here's a link:

h t t p : / / w w w . s f f . n e t / p e o p l e / s a n d e r s / n a g a n t 1 . j p g


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